


Lunch Box

by TheMouthKing



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Food Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Smut, Suggestions of Infidelity, Video Cameras, Voyeurism, WAM, Wet & Messy, Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?, but totally consensual, sort of phone sex/audio sex, sploshing, talk of punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: When Link forgets his lunch at home and asks Rhett to pick it up for him on his way into work, he thinks it'd be funny to use his new Nest cam to pop in and say hello while he's in Link's kitchen. What Link doesn't realize is that he's about to get himself into a bigger mess than he could have planned for.





	Lunch Box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisiscyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiscyrene/gifts).



> HUGE thank you to @killthenaughtyboy/thisiscyrene for her services as my Master Beta, and for pushing me to make this as filthy as possible. Thank you Cyrene for helping me reach my most disgusting potential. Additional thanks to @mythicaliz who read through as well and offered feedback, and to @usefulmammal/annabelle_leigh who lets me tell her filthy ideas as I'm working stuff out.

**Link**

**Today** 7:23 AM

Hey man. Sorry to bother you this early, but would you mind stopping by my house on your way in and grabbing my lunch? I left it on the kitchen counter.

Just order something with me later, man. I’m on my way to the gym

But it’s all made! I don’t want it going bad.

See if Christy can run over with it

She’s out of town with the kids.

Come on man, do me a solid.

Fine. Is Jade gonna escape again? I don’t have time for this

Dude relax. We’re the bosses, we can make time sometimes.

And no, they’ve got Jade with them. Just grab my lunch box and go. Easy.

If we’re the bosses and can make time why can’t you get your own damn lunch?

Because you’re still home so you’re closer. 

Thank you!!

 

That final _thank you_ and the tone he mentally reads it in isn’t the only thing that’s grating on Rhett’s nerves. They’d been talking about their morning routines the other day, about the fact that he keeps to a schedule, so Link had to know before he’d sent the first text that he’d be catching him on the way out the door. This was gonna fuck up his morning routine, have him rushing if he wants to keep the same timetable going. Not like it really matters, he supposes -- they _are_ the bosses and it doesn’t matter if he gets to work ten minutes late, really. 

Speaking of, why the hell is Link already at work at 7:30? He’d text and ask, but he’s already annoyed with him so he doesn’t bother. Instead, he tosses his phone down on the gym bag in his passenger seat and throws the car in reverse. It’s a short drive to Link’s house, but it’s a short drive in the wrong direction, and each passing minute is making him just a little bit later.

Once he’s parked in Link’s driveway, he grabs his keys and phone and gets out of the car, clicking _lock_ as he walks up the drive. Rhett has keys for Link’s house, same as Link has keys for his. They don’t just barge in, knocking like a visitor because they know it’s not just the other one in there but the whole family and they aren’t going to intrude. But for emergencies, they’ve got the other’s spare house key. 

You know, for those emergencies when you’ve left your lunch at home.

Rhett’s rolling his eyes internally as he lets himself in and locks the door behind. He flicks his phone open and re-reads the text messages from Link. Kitchen counter. Alright, got it.

He’s familiar with their house and the layout -- he’s been here plenty of times before, for family gatherings and holidays, weekends where they get their families together for cookouts or movie nights -- so he doesn’t hesitate in moving through the entryway, past the open sitting room and through into the kitchen. 

His sneakers squeak on the tile floor as he moves between the counter top and the island. Looking around at both, there is a lunch box on neither. 

Rhett pockets his keys and opens his phone up again, typing into the text box.

 

**Link**

**Today** 7:46 AM

I don’t see your lunchbox.

I do.

 

What the actual _fuck?_ Rhett’s head whips around like he’s expecting to see Link standing there, even though he knows damn well his car isn’t out front. It takes him a split second too long to put together that Link must be watching through one of his new Nest cams, so he hears Link speak before he’s put two and two together. 

“Hey.” It’s Link’s voice, loud and more or less clear, sounding like it’s filtered through a speaker.

Rhett moves toward the fridge, frowning at the little camera. Hadn’t they _just_ had this conversation about checking up on people with their security systems? Rhett can’t believe that he’s doing this, spying on him while he’s doing a goddamn favor for him. 

“Real cute,” Rhett sounds anything but charmed. “Where’s the dang lunchbox?” 

 

He realizes a little late that Link had said the audio didn’t work both ways yet, so he’s swiping back into his texts to ask the same question there when he hears Link speak again.

“I’m lookin’ at it.”

So apparently Link had got the audio working. Rhett’s not amused. If Link can see it, it’s in the camera’s field of view, so he turns and looks at everything the camera can feasibly see. The island, then, not the counter under the cabinets… no lunchbox. The table beyond it? Nothing. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re pulling, but knock it off, Link.” There’s no room in his voice for argument. 

Link, on the other hand, seems like he’s not remotely bothered by how irritable Rhett clearly is. 

“I’m talking ‘bout you.”

Rhett just stops dead in his tracks at that, a wry smile tugging at his mouth, firmly planted between irritable and amused and trying to hide it. “You calling me your lunchbox, brother? If anyone’s the sidekick, it’s you… ‘Rhett _and Link_ ’... plus, you’re smaller.”

“Shorter,” Link corrects. “In only one direction. Plus, it goes both ways. I’m your lunchbox too. I’m the whole damn snack.”

Ignore the fact that a lunch is bigger than a snack. Rhett has to wonder if Link has been reading through urban dictionary again, and if not, then where the hell had this come from? 

“Are you done? I’ve already wasted twenty minutes for your joke.”

“Not quite yet. Can you back away from the fridge a little bit?” 

Rhett blinked as he realized that little shit was trying to get a free show. Well, two can play at that game.

“Oh, so you wanna spy on me? Well then, you’re gonna see whatcha see.”

“I like what I see, so I’m not complaining…”

He’d no sooner uttered those words than Rhett had hopped up onto the marble topped island and, hands gripping the edge, wiggled his still clothed ass around on the surface. It’s not gross by any means, but he knows Link. Even fully clothed booty on the counter top is grounds for a full wipe down. The marble’s gonna need it before he’s done messing with Link if he’s got anything to say on the matter. 

“Don’t be nasty,” comes the immediate response, Link’s voice sounding like he was trying, suddenly in the middle of this thing _that he’d started_ , to lay down the law. 

“Oh, you ain’t seen _nasty_.” Rhett, on the other hand, sounded like he was promising... well, if not that show that Link had been angling for, then _something._ He leans over the edge and fishes a drawer open, pulling out two cornflower blue oven mitts. 

“What on earth…?” Link’s disembodied voice wonders from the top of the fridge. 

Rhett pulls them on his hands and rubs them down his chest, hands roughly circling his nipples for a couple of sweeps before smoothing down his belly and back up, rucking his gray gym shirt up as he goes, exposing his soft belly to the view of the Nest cam. Rhett can’t remember the last time he’s sat down to intentionally put on a show where there wasn’t a viewfinder to watch, a way to get a sense of how he looked in the shot. 

“You like this?” Rhett asks, really going the extra mile to make a show of it. He’s squirming around where he’s sitting perched, bracing his feet against the island to move a little more, lots of shoulder action. 

“I mean, yes, but I’d like it more if it wasn’t on my marble counter top.”

Rhett’s got half a mind to take this way, way too far. Really get back at Link for starting this in the first place, making him come twenty minutes out of his way just for a joke. One oven-mitted hand rubs down his chest and over his bare belly, the soft cotton dragging over his skin as that hand sinks down between his legs, spreading his thighs slowly for effect. He knows damn well he looks ridiculous touching himself with oven mitts on, but the Link’s lack of further commentary lets him know it’s starting to have an effect on him and it encourages Rhett to carry on. 

Rhett’s more than willing to go too far for revenge, especially when he can already imagine just how it’s going to end. 

“I dunno if I can strip out of my clothes without the mitts on… I might be too hot to handle,” Rhett’s twinkling at his joking innuendo. Even as he says it, though, he’s pulling the mitts off so he can pull his t-shirt off over his head. 

“You sayin’ you’re my hot lunch?” Link’s disembodied voice asks from the fridge with the air of a man who has zero idea what he’s just said. 

That comment catches Rhett completely by surprise and the laugh comes on so fast that he snorts, bent over double, hand braced on the edge of the counter top. “Oh ho-ho, man, that does _not_ mean what you think it means…”

“Quit laughin’ at me,” Link snaps back, instantly insulted and feeling like he’s on the outside of a joke he ought to know. 

“Hey, you’re the one reading urban dictionary over there with the whole lunchbox bit,” Rhett’s still fighting down chuckles that round out his cheeks when he tosses his shirt away from him and starts kicking his sneakers off. 

“What’re you doing?” Link asks, as if he hasn’t just borne witness to everything that’s happened up till now. 

Rhett would roll his eyes at Link if he thought it’d do a damn bit of good. Honestly, he’s got to wonder sometimes what’s going on in his head. He’d had him come over on a wild goose chase for his lunch, started flirting with him through his security camera, and _now_ he wants to know what Rhett’s doing?

“I’m gonna help myself to your fridge,” Rhett announces as he stands up from the island, not too far to go with legs as long as his, and hesitates a moment before heading to the fridge to push his gym shorts down his hips. Beneath them, he’s wearing green buffalo check boxer briefs, and when he bends over to push them the rest of the way down his legs, he pulls off his gym socks at the same time, giving them a toss and the shorts a kick on his way to the fridge. 

As if on cue, Link suddenly remembers, “Oh, right, my lunch is in the fridge. I musta forgot. It’s in the brown bag on the top shelf.”

Rhett gives the Nest cam a dead-pan expression, and then opens up the fridge and dips down so all the camera can see of him is the top of his bed-head hair. There’s crinkling -- a lot of crinkling -- and by the time Rhett is standing back up straight, he’s holding the sandwich in question and taking a huge bite out of it. 

“Hey! Excuse you! Who said you could eat my lunch?”

“I thought _I_ was your lunch,” Rhett says around his mouthful. 

“Knock it off, I was just messin’ with the flirty stuff, all I wanted was for you to get my dang lunch and now you gotta eat it on me? Jeez, man. That’s cold.”

“How about I make it up to you?” Rhett asks as he goes in for a second bite. It’s a good sandwich. You know, for a Link sandwich. Turkey and provolone with lettuce and mayo on light rye, no onion, no tomato. 

“How you figure on doing that?” Link’s voice asks from the speakers on the Nest cam, edging back from annoyed and flirting with interest. 

“I’ve got a couple ideas,” Rhett says and takes another big bite with a couple smaller satellite bites to get the maximum amount of sandwich in his mouth at once. He sets the half-eaten sandwich up on top of the fridge, in full view of the Nest cam, and dives back into the fridge. He can hear a softly muttered _oh for fuck’s sake_ come from the top of the fridge, and grins to himself as he picks through the fridge like he’s shopping for a particularly nefarious plan, gathering up the things he thinks he’ll need. Before he’s done, he stops off in the cupboard for one more thing, and heads back over to the island where he’s in good view of the fridge and sets down his supplies. He’s got chocolate sauce, whipped cream, a jar of brandied cherries, and a jar of peanut butter. 

“ _Rhett_.” 

Link’s voice is a warning that Rhett doesn’t heed. 

Rhett hops back up on the kitchen island, too smug about his his plan to have any forethought about what it’d be like for his bare thighs to meet cold marble, and he yelps at the cold and almost comes back up off the surface with a start. 

Link, who clearly had seen what was happening miles away, shoots back, “That’s what you get.”

Not one to be so easily put off a plan, Rhett scoots back so his legs dangle comfortably, the marble slowly warming beneath him. He swings one leg out for balance as he leans the other way to grab the first of his snacks; the big jar of peanut butter. Unscrewing the lid, he can see it’s barely been used at all. Perfect. 

“Rhett, don’t you dare--”

But Rhett dares. He reaches into the value sized jar of peanut butter with his big, unwashed hand and scoops out a gob of it and proceeds to smear it over his chest, letting it get caught up in his chest hair. It’s warm and it sticks everywhere it touches, thick between his fingers but thinning out with the heat of his skin and going gooey as he rubs it in. The scent of peanut butter is overpowering, but it’s the sound that’s really startling. That’s not something you think of when you think of peanut butter -- the sound -- but when his hand comes away and curls into a fist to test the mess he was making, the peanut butter coating the palm of his hand squelches with this slick-wet sound that’s nothing if not obscene.

Now there’s silence from the Nest cam, but it doesn’t matter. Rhett doesn’t need to hear Link to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s still watching. He can picture him on the other side of the feed, sitting in their shared office, at his desk, creeping on him through his phone, eyes glued to the little screen. Hand starting to think about meandering on down south, if only he can get past being annoyed about Rhett wasting his food. Making a mess of his kitchen.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” Link’s voice comes hard and unyielding through the speaker, and this is different from last time he’d tried and failed to lay down the law, when he’d said _don’t be nasty._ This time there’s a promise behind the words that Rhett knows he’s gonna make good on. 

“Gosh, I certainly hope so,” Rhett smiles to himself as he pops one long finger into his mouth and sucks the peanut butter off. Or tries. With every passing second, it seems like the peanut butter is enveloping him, forming a film over his skin that’s going to take a long, hot shower and plenty of soap to wash off. “ _Mmmm…_ ” he hums loud enough to be heard through the surveillance camera. 

Rhett knows exactly what he’s doing here. He knows that anything they do at one of their homes is a risk. This is a big slap in the face to that, it’s a blatant disregard for the unspoken rules they follow with this thing they’re exploring between them so they don’t get caught. Never at home, never at work (except sometimes on Thursday nights), no text messages, nothing risky. Suddenly, all the rules have been thrown out the window at once. 

“I swear to God, Rhett, you’re gonna clean that kitchen up and replace everything you mess with or I’m gonna tan your hide.”

Rhett’s eyes are stormy, locked right on that Nest cam, but he’s not fooling anyone. Sitting there in his green checked boxer briefs, he’s starting to go pink as he carries on rubbing peanut butter into his chest, trying to wipe his hand off on his hairy belly before going in for another scoop. It’s all in vain, the wiping it off. There’s no separating himself from the peanut butter coating his fingers, from how it settles into any and every crevice it can find. God, he can picture the look on Link’s face in his mind’s eye, that recoil of disgust that he’d dare double dip with his bare hand, after rubbing his hand all over his chest. After sucking one filthy finger into his mouth.

This handful of peanut butter is smoothed down one long, lean thigh like an invitation of where to lick. 

“Oh, you best not get that on the island...”

Rhett’s never heard Link’s voice go so hard and unyielding. He’d do anything to keep pushing at him right now, keep him just the right level of mad because Jesus _Christ_ is it ever hot. 

“Or what?” Rhett asks, that peanut butter palm moving between his thighs to cup himself messily through his green checked undies. Moving down, the peanut butter pops, this sloppy wet sound as air pockets are trapped and burst as his hand curls and unfurls, as he rubs his filthy fingers over the white and black marble beneath him, the first of his mess that’s touched the house. If you weren’t counting the discarded, half-eaten sandwich on the fridge, or the clothes strewn all over the kitchen floor.

“Or I’m gonna whoop you good and make you clean it up, boy.”

Rhett gives himself a peanut buttery squeeze. 

“I’d like to see you try,” the words come out softer than he’d anticipated, the wind knocked from his sails by the image of what Link is threatening to do to him, and the hand cupping his ever-hardening cock. 

Rhett leans for the next thing he’d brought out, planting that dirty palm against the marble, purposefully, for balance, leaving behind a big, tell-tale handprint on the counter top. He can practically feel Link blowing a gasket from here. 

With the chocolate sauce by his side, Rhett spares a minute to lean back on his elbows and wriggle out of his messy underwear. He lifts one hip then the other, inches them down until his cock is exposed, and once the fabric is bunched around his thighs it’s easy enough to push them off the rest of the way without standing. Nevermind the fact that they trawl through the peanut butter mess he’s made of his thighs and land in a sticky heap on the tile floor. 

Now he’s bare ass on the marble counter top, hard cock free to the kitchen air of a house it was never supposed to be out in. Link’s family is gone for the next three days, but that’s never made a difference; never at home, no exceptions. It was too risky, especially now that they’d both decided to set up surveillance cameras in the house. Problem is, that also made breaking the rules that much more enticing. 

“Don’t,” Link’s voice is softer maybe. More hollow, like the air’s gone out of him too. Like Rhett’s not the only one breaking rules, tending to a problem in an inappropriate place. Is Link sitting in their office with his hand down the front of his pants? Does he have the footage up on his phone or his laptop? Just how much detail can he see?

Rhett leans back just slightly and pops the top on the chocolate sauce with his teeth, adding insult to injury, and turns the bottle upside down and gives it a squeeze. The syrup is a shock of cold when it hits his skin fresh from the fridge, and he gasps as he lets it drizzle and drip down his chest. It catches in the wide smear of the peanut butter that’s already there, diverting into his belly button, clinging sticky to his body hair. He gives a good douse to his thighs, both the peanut buttered one and the neglected one, watching with smug satisfaction as it drips onto the tile floor beneath him. Clings to his calves in rivulets, making its way slowly to his feet. He’s not done adding more when the bottle won’t squeeze anymore, and the next squeeze and shake makes the bottle fart air and almost no chocolate. He’d emptied damn near an entire bottle of chocolate over his chest and belly, down his mile-long legs. 

With the bottle spent, he gives it a toss into the deep farmhouse sink and claps his hands to his chest to smear it around. He can feel it mix with the peanut butter, but the two are distinct. The peanut butter almost feels hotter than his skin, the chocolate is still cool by comparison. There’s a graininess to the peanut butter, not quite perfectly smooth while the syrup is almost slick by comparison, adding a sticky liquidy element to the mess he’s making. 

He’d never totally gotten it before, why Link likes getting wet and messy. What he’s once or twice called _sploshing_ when they were alone, when he asked about pitching another messy food idea at a team meeting. Nachos, sushi, peeps, pizza, tea, it didn’t matter what it was as long as by the end Link was so filthy he’d need an hour in the shower to restore himself to normal. 

He thinks he gets it now. There’s a thrill to getting messy when he shouldn’t be. For Rhett, it’s all complicated with time and place, with Link’s anger and the threat (or promise) of tables turned, but he’s getting a taste of what it is Link loves about this, the mix of texture and temperature, smell and feel. Rubbing his feet together, one foot then the other over his ankles, his calves, he feels how slick his skin is, how sticky. It combines two of his favorite things, or maybe three -- being naked, food, and upping the ante. 

“Oh, I’m gonna _keel_ you.” Link’s slipping, his voice gone thick with that accent creeping back in, too angry to be vigilant enough to keep it at bay. 

That’s not about to stop Rhett now. He’s going for broke, wraps one chocolate peanut butter hand around his dick like he’s fixing to make candy and gives an easy stroke, sticky toes curling. God, it’s absolutely disgusting, or it _should be_ but it’s not. It’s nothing like anything else he’s ever experienced, nothing like going for a stroke with a hand slick with lube. There’s this noisy, oily, eternal between-the-fingers squish of the peanut butter that feels like it’s never going to wipe or wash away, just spread and take over more and more of his body the more his hands roam over hungry skin. He indulges himself in another noisy slide of his fist just to tide him over. Just to tease. 

Just so his hands are definitely dirty in Link’s opinion, as if they aren’t already, when he grabs the whipped cream can from nearby and pops the cap off. 

The first shot of whipped cream goes directly into Rhett’s mouth, more than he’s capable of containing in his mouth at once, and he’s got a dribble of cream stuck in his beard as he swallows. Pausing to consider where the next blast should go, he pops a little spurt of it over each nipple -- after the syrup, the cool temperature of the cream is less shocking -- and tries to draw a smile across his chest, but it doesn’t stay. Just keeps lazily sliding down his messy belly, like a disagreeable ice cream that won’t hold its toppings. That’s why you make a banana split in a dish rather than on a cone, because everything falls off unless it’s laying down. 

Rhett gives up before long and draws a line of whipped cream down his thighs, ending with a dot of the topping on each knee, like twin exclamation points. 

“Are you pleased with yourself, McLaughlin?”

Link hasn’t called him by his last name in a _long_ time. 

“Not as pleased as I’m gonna be,” he answers, struggling to keep the smirk out of his voice. Good Lord, if Link were _here…_

Rhett pulls the jar of cherries across the counter and struggles to twist it open, hands a slippery, oily-sticky mess, but with some effort (and rubbing his palms off on a nearby tea towel) he manages it and pops a brandied cherry into his mouth before fishing out a couple more. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Link’s practically rolling in his grave at the fact that Rhett’s putting his disgusting hands into Christy’s twenty dollar jar of cherries. The mess Rhett’s making is only making him fucking _hotter_ , and that’s audible too, beneath the anger and disbelief, there’s this hard edge of need. 

Cherries are placed in the whipped cream perilously perched on his nipples and dotted along the stretch of cream down his thighs. He’s six feet seven inches of decadence and filth. And he’s covered in sundae toppings to boot. 

“If you were here, I’d let you have a taste,” Rhett says, leaning back on his hands on the island in a fruitless effort to keep the cherries on his chest from sliding down with the whipped cream. If Link doesn’t get what he means, then maybe the leg that draws up as he leans back tips him off, heel smearing chocolate over the marble counter as he lets his legs fall open, cherries falling haphazardly with the move. 

“I’d give you a taste... of my belt,” Link retorts. 

But there’s a difference, a change in his tone. Rhett can tell what it means, the breathiness betraying the fact that he’s jerking off already. He’s sitting there with his phone in one hand, cock in the other, stroking himself to the sight of the mess Rhett was making sprawled all over his usually pristine kitchen island.

“Don’t make a promise you ain’t gonna keep,” Rhett eyes the camera atop the fridge. He can just imagine how he must look like this from the angle Link has, all spread out in the mess he’s made and hard for him. 

“Oh, almost forgot…” Rhett reaches out for the little bunch of bananas sitting out in a bowl almost at arm's length and snags one. Sitting up carefully, he tries hard not to lose all his toppings while he peels the banana. 

“...I’m a banana split.” Rhett would pay real money to see the look on Link’s face when he sees Rhett lock eyes with the camera and take the banana as far into his mouth as humanly possible before taking a bite. He’s slow and deliberate with it, knows just how he’s gotta look, just as obscene or _more_ than when he’s on his knees, when it’s Link’s cock he’s wrapping his lips around. He doesn’t know what it is that does it, but it’s the look in his eyes as he swallows, dark and heavy-lidded with lust, like what he’s trying for is to devour Link whole.

There’s an odd, disembodied sputter coming from the direction of the fridge. A point for Rhett.

Rhett sweeps the whipped cream and cherry off one of his nipples before it slides much further down his chest, and pops it into his mouth. Just cause Link’s not here to get a taste of him doesn’t mean the dessert is gonna go to waste. He hums satisfaction and sucks his fingers clean before dragging them down the chocolate peanut butter of his belly and gets a lick of that before he lets a different apetite take over.

He’s jerking off in earnest now, or trying to. He can’t stop himself. The buildup was too much, too goddamn filthy to keep on teasing Link anymore. But the peanut butter and chocolate sauce isn’t the best lube for actually trying to get a rhythm going, for easing the stroke of his hand over his cock. What it does offer is a feast of sound. It’s got to be loud enough for Link to hear it through the speaker, the obscene wet smacking of hand and skin, peanut butter and chocolate, sweat and sweet cream. Maybe it’s the sound that lurches himself into the thick of desperation, how decidedly _nasty_ all of this is. But he needs something else. Something slick. 

He looks left and sees a tub of coconut oil tucked near the island range a couple feet away from him and scoots, leaving a snail-trail of chocolate and peanut butter as he goes. Prying the tub open, he scoops out a handful of the soft-solid oil to the backdrop of Link keening a protest at the creeping spread of his mess towards the range, or perhaps the fact that he’d tainted another foodstuff. 

Or maybe a combination of all of the above, mixed in with the view he’s got of Rhett so desperate to jerk off and add that to the mess he’s already made, and how hard he is on the other side of the camera watching it all unfold.

The coconut oil warms up shiny and slick as he spreads it over his cock. He can feel it drooling down his balls, smearing his inner thighs and mixing with the rest and he’s off like a shot. That’s what he’d needed, that shift in friction, the easy glide of skin over skin. He can still feel the mess of peanut butter and chocolate squeeze between his fingers, but the oiled-up shine of his cock and knuckles adds something to it. It’s wetter than the rest and it adds a slip to the thicker mess, mixing together with each eager stroke. 

Sitting up, he basks in the mess of it. Shoulders hunched forward greedily, fingertips gripping the lip of the counter, his fist pumps between his spread thighs and he drinks it all in. The mix of the smells and the taste of banana, whipped cream and brandied cherries still lingering over his tongue as the shock of sound echoes in the wide, white kitchen as he strokes himself. The vile, wet slap of skin would be unmistakably _sex_ even if there was only an audio feed between them.

He’s dripping. Chocolate sauce dripping from his thighs and toes, pooling on the tile beneath him, cock leaking with each not-quite enough stroke. He needs Link to push him, needs him at his back whispering in his ear that he could take it. He can take more. He needs it to be Link’s hand on his cock giving him what he’d never known he needed, too much, too fast, shocking him with how hard he can come when he stops pumping the brakes.

“If I was there I’d lick up on your thighs and suck the peanut butter from your balls,” Link sounds desperate, like the rage over the mess has all but evaporated and left a hunger in its wake. A hunger that sight and sound alone won’t be able to satisfy.

The words echo through the room and hit Rhett hard, filthier than anything he’s done up till now. 

“Oh fuck,” Rhett groans, head tipping back as he starts to pick up speed, fingers straying down to ghost over his sack briefly on a down stroke at the mention of Link’s mouth sucking him there. 

“Don’t slow down,” Link warns. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He can hear it, then. Link’s close enough to the camera, to the mic that Rhett can hear him breathing, hear him moving. His breath a sharp staccato race to the finish, punctuated with the sound of his hand fast on his cock, wet and louder than it ought to be. 

“Oh my God, oh God, _Link_ ,” Rhett’s hand is racing to match Link’s pace, like _don’t slow down_ was code for _keep up._

Link doesn’t say anything else, just devours Rhett with his eyes as Rhett falls apart at the seams. Watches as the breakneck pace he keeps leaves his sticky thighs trembling, practically jumping from overstimulation, too much but not quite enough, not yet. Watches as he pushes through too fast too hard and gives in with heaving breaths, runs a chocolate hand through his sweaty hair to push it from his eyes, forgetting that he’s making it worse. Here and there, there’s a shaky breath or broken moan that’s a tip off that Rhett’s not here alone, but mostly it’s a spotlight on Rhett as he practically turns inside out, coming messily in his hand, on his thigh, on Link’s tile floor. 

Link continues on, not quite there yet. Rhett can hear the telltale sounds echoing off the marble and tile, the way his breath catches in all these little half-voiced moans that say he’s trying to keep the volume down. Trying and failing. 

Rhett closes his eyes and just listens and feels. He’s always liked _after_ , liked letting himself be sweaty and gross for a while, but this is the next level. As he settles into his skin and comes back down, he’s so aware of the mess of his body. His skin is hot against the cool room and it’s welcome, feels good, like a cold cloth against a fevered forehead. Lazily, he drags his hand over his belly, swirling his cum into the chocolate and peanut butter and melted remnants of whipped cream.

When Link comes, he knows it, sure as anything. It sounds like the moment takes Link by surprise, like he hadn’t expected it so soon, or like he was trying to hold off and unable to. It’s surreal to hear him like this, his disembodied voice obscene in his family kitchen at barely eight in the morning, and Rhett laid out like forgotten dessert. 

After a long stretch of heavy silence from both sides comes a ragged, “You’re gonna clean it up… I’m gonna make you lick it up...”

“How ‘bout’chu make me?” Rhett barely opens his eyes when he answers, peeks at the camera through eyes like slits, a slow grin starting to tug at the corners of his mouth at the mental image of Link making good on his threat. 

“Don’t’chu move a muscle. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

**Author's Note:**

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